Half-Life Series: Part 1 Moving to North Carolina

Author's Note: This essay, and the one after, are about my journey from Pennsylvania to North Carolina in August of 2001. There's some of what happened before, some of what happened after. You’ll also find a little peeping into the family cupboard at a few skeletons—though let me be clear: the point isn’t to expose or accuse, but simply to state.

On the 31st, I will have lived in North Carolina for exactly half my life. Moving here saved my life. It deserves more fanfare. While it’s not unusual to leave one’s home state and start over somewhere new, this move was, for me, the most important thing I’ve ever done—short of marrying Micki. Soon, I’ll have lived here longer than anywhere else. That feels worth recognizing.

On June 29th, 2001, I met my future wife and her three young sons. I’d read about love at first sight, seen it in movies and on TV, but that day, in Pennsylvania, I experienced it for myself. Two months later, I packed everything I owned into my midnight blue 1989 Dodge Dynasty and drove from Milford, PA (where I was staying—I won’t call it living) to Asheboro. I had to get back to the four people I loved most in the world.

Until then, my life had been defined by being cast aside or pushed away. As a marriage counselor put it later, I spent a lot of time feeling in the way. My arrival—twelve years after my brother—was not an accident, but a surprise. Three years later, my parents split, and we flailed until my mother met my stepfather. Moving in with him, I learned quickly that my stepbrothers saw me as an intruder. I never fit in. Too sensitive, too imaginative, too rebellious, too talkative. I didn’t do my homework, refused to get up for church, and did mostly what I wanted. Teachers wrote on my report cards: “David talks too much and doesn’t pay attention.” The only adults I didn’t frustrate were my grandmothers, Uncle Dan, and, on the Bare side, my Good Aunt.

When my mother got sick, school kept me from joining her in Texas for treatment. Left to my own devices, I wasn’t a frustration to anyone for once. After my mother died and I moved in with my father, any stability I’d previously felt in their house on weekends was gone, along with their marriage. I only stayed a brief time, maybe three years, but tensions grew every month. When I needed love and support—I felt like an inconvenience, not family. Eventually, I moved out to be closer to old friends in northern PA.

As for romance, I only had friends, though sometimes I hoped for more. My only serious relationship, in my first year of college, ended mainly because I wasn’t from an “unbroken” home—and because I wasn’t settled. By 19, I was rough-hewn, world-weary, lonely, and a little needy. That girlfriend became engaged before actually breaking up with me, which convinced me I wasn’t made for relationships.

My friends started replicating their parents’ lives. I wasn’t on that track. As they drifted toward domesticity, I felt left behind—our common ground slowly disappearing as early adulthood put distance between us.

Living in Milford, PA, I took an internship at the local church, convincing myself I wanted to be a preacher. In hindsight, it was the belonging I craved—the feeling of respect, appreciation, and community. Preaching let me feel those things, though in the rest of my life I was chain-smoking and hanging out with characters from Chaucer and Dickens (the odd, fringe variety) and drinking too much. I kept up appearances for those who mattered, but I was living a lie. I was miserable. Maybe that’s why Raskolnikov—and Dostoevsky generally—resonated. I read Notes From Underground over and over in that Siberian stretch of my life.

Meeting Micki and her boys that June changed everything. For the first time, someone accepted me—warts and all. I didn’t have to change. My hopes, struggles, and even my quirks weren’t inconvenient. We bonded immediately, and the boys won my heart with a feeling I can still summon. Hope started flickering again. Maybe, just maybe, I was redeemable. Micki said I was an “old soul.” That made me feel like a modern-day Hegel. By then, even the ebullience of my youth had begun to gutter.

That Fourth of July weekend, I got a glimpse of my future. Micki’s family was welcoming—accepting—and for once, I didn’t feel judged or not good enough. I didn’t know it then, but some of those faces would soon be called “family.” People were laughing, playing games, having fun. That’s what family was supposed to be, and it made me realize what I’d been missing.

Over the next few weeks, Micki visited, and our bond grew deeper. In early August, her aunt drove to NC to visit, and I went along. Her aunt left after a few days, but I stayed. Micki drove me back the next weekend. Somewhere along that drive, I knew I couldn’t face the future without her. The closer we got to Pennsylvania, the more I realized my future wasn’t there.

I had to tell my brother and father my plans. It felt Herculean. They actually joined forces to convince me not to go. Nearly everyone said it was a bad idea. Oddly, their opposition only strengthened my resolve. Maybe they meant well—looking back, I’m grateful they cared—but I was never going to be stopped. At twenty-four, with more baggage than I had in my car, I left Pennsylvania that Friday and started an adventure that continues to this day.

I’m fascinated by the multiverse theory that suggests every decision creates new realities. Somewhere, in another dimension, there’s a Dave who never left Pennsylvania. That thought fills me with dread. I don’t believe in fate, exactly, though somewhere in my bones it felt like destiny to move to NC and start a family with Micki and the boys. “Fate” and “destiny” don’t feel like the right words. In old Anglo-Saxon, the word is wyrd—”to become.” That fits best: that choice helped me become the man I am.

There were plenty of challenges after relocating—some internal, some external. My stepmother reported my car stolen. I quit smoking on September 1st and spent a month cranky and sick with a lung infection. A week after I arrived, the Twin Towers fell. Micki’s ex-husband was not happy about me staying with his kids. It was all a lot to process. Yet, they didn’t seem like roadblocks—more like victories.

The world was in turmoil. We were heading back to war. People were scared. I saw the first flickers of Islamophobia and far-right menace. But in my own life, I was happy for the first time. We got married that October and started building a life. I became an NC resident; my dad’s girlfriend sold me her car, which I totaled a year later while calling him the day after his birthday—my first (and only) wreck here.

I had serious culture shock for a few months, but the boys lit up my days, and Micki stood by me through my flaws and the pains of transition. Like any newlyweds, we struggled, but I never felt unloved or unwanted. I had a lot to learn as a father and husband, but I kept at it. I have regrets about some things, and I don’t want to forget the past or close the door on those struggles, but we made it.

For the past 24 years, I’ve experienced something I didn’t know was possible—I could live my own life, not shackled by old ideology or other people’s doubts and fears. I found freedom, love, and my own family. These mean more to me than anything else.

Moving South, as a Yankee, was sometimes like crossing into another country. Despite open borders, the South has its own culture and identity—you can’t expect to ever be “from here.” By Southern standards, I’ll always be a northerner. But I’ve been here so long that it doesn’t matter. With Micki’s devotion, I’ve found community, calling, home, and belonging—things Pennsylvania just didn’t hold for me.

Like newlyweds, North Carolina and I had to get used to each other’s quirks. That takes time. Any time we leave the state, I’m relieved to come back—that’s the surest sign that this is home.

I’ve written lovingly about North Carolina—its trails, flora and fauna, culture, people, food, and quirks (both best and most frustrating). Like kudzu, North Carolina has grown into my heart. Sometimes I wish my brother and father could break the north’s hold and find the same enchantment here that I have.

This is my life. One of the best realities is that I’m an NC man. My family, pets, home, career, and purpose are here. So, too, is my healing. I’ve been cured of my Victorian childhood, my self-doubt, my addictions, and the strange dependence on pseudoscience and evangelicalism that still haunts my northern relatives. I’ve found peace and acceptance. The love of my wife and children has carried me through my pain. They loved and supported me at every stage. I’m far from whole—I still have scars, but they don’t dominate my life.

I’d be remiss not to clarify: I’m on good terms with Pop Bare and my brother. Their role in this story is to explain the alienation I felt. I don’t blame them. I was in a bad place and needed something different.

In Part 2, I’ll talk more about living in the South, the culture shock, and how some former annoyances are now my favorite things.